


I Will Find You In the Darkness

by fiadorable



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Bugs, Camping, Confessions, Dimples Queen, F/M, Fire, Fishing, Magic, Mud, Outlaw Believer, Outlaw Queen - Freeform, Regal Believer, but i promise, dimples believer, for fuck's sake they're only trees, guys i've never actually been camping except for once, i have no idea how to clean a fish, is that even a thing?, or light a fire, so mote it be, that you won't even notice, there's enough angst and loveliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-28
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-04-11 16:58:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4444379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiadorable/pseuds/fiadorable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A post season four camping trip with Robin, Regina, Henry, and Roland as they all work through some things. Canon divergent after "Mother". Rated C for Camping, S for Swearing, and P for Pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [black-throatedblue](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=black-throatedblue).



The camping trip was Archie's idea, and for once Henry's mom agreed with his suggestion without hesitation or reservation. She clomps down the stairs in sturdy jeans, hiking boots, and even a purple and black plaid flannel shirt he's pretty sure is Emma's tied off at her waist, revealing a plain white shirt tucked into her waistband. It's the most casual he's ever seen her, and when he ribs her for it as they load the car with the camping gear, she cuffs him lightly on the chin and kisses his forehead, reminding him to not forget the toilet paper because she is not going to traipse around in the woods with a chafed derrière. Robin walks past them with Roland piggybacked, and he murmurs something into her ear Henry can't hear that makes her blush and kick at his ankle, which he dodges, and when Henry looks at Roland with his eyebrows raised the boy frowns and shrugs his shoulders.

  
Grownups.

  
They drive a ways into the forest and park near the river. Once they've set up the two tents, one for Robin and Roland and the other for Henry and his mom, Henry suggests he and Roland go collect kindling for the fire while their respective parents secure the campground. The adults agree, reminding them to stick to the edge of the treeline within shouting distance, and the two boys trudge off.

  
The little guy is different now, Henry thinks. Quieter. Roland had kept up a steady stream of chatter in the brief time they'd been in Storybrooke together, but in the time since his moms went to find them in New York Henry's barely heard him utter more than two or three words at a time. Now that they're in the woods, though, Roland’s step has a perky jaunt, and his head swivels as they walk, taking in the sights and sounds of the forest.

  
It's been... odd having Robin and Roland staying with them in the house. It's always been him and his mom and the sometimes empty spaces between them, and now those empty spaces are just rooms in the house, not rooms in their hearts, and there are people living where only dust gathered before. The more and less of their lives doubled overnight and became an inverse of the way things were before. There's more laundry spilling into the hallway, fewer towels in the bathroom cabinets, more juice boxes crowding the refrigerator, and less room in the kitchen while his mom bakes. Not bad, just different.

  
"Here looks good," Henry says, stopping at a small grove of trees near the riverbank. Roland nods, and starts to pick up sticks one by one, tossing away branches soft and dark from the last rainfall that pushed the river out of its bed.

  
If the change is weird for him, Henry thinks, picking up a handful after handful of thick branches, it must be worse for the kid. He should say something. Start a dialogue, as Archie would say, and isn't this what the camping trip is for? "Hey, Roland."

  
"Yeah?"

  
Henry turns around and laughs. Roland is laying in a mud puddle, arms and legs splayed as though he's going to make a mud angel, fingers curling in and out of the dirt with soft squelches, a beatific smile dimpling his face. "What are you doing?"

  
"There was no mud in the loud place. In New York."

  
"Ah," Henry says, walking over and setting his load of kindling in a drier patch of dirt away from the mud. "No, there's metal and concrete, but not much mud. Not like here." He sits with his back against a tree, arms propped on his knees, watching the sun refract off the river's eddies. He can just see his mom crouching near the edge of the river, fiddling with something as Robin cleans his crossbow nearby.

  
Roland continues to squelch in the mud, wiggling his feet, humming something under his breath that Henry can't quite catch enough of to make out the tune. Storybrooke is a lot different from New York, and while he misses some things (the food variety, the frenetic energy always pulsing below the sidewalks), being here feels like all the little parts of him are whole again, vibrating on the same frequency with each other. Maine isn't home for Roland, he thinks, not yet, but it's closer to the Enchanted Forest than the concrete jungle.

  
The humming stops, and Henry glances over at his charge. His feet are pointing straight up at the gray sky. "Henry?" Roland asks. "Are you ever afraid your mom is someone else?"

  
Henry's chest squeezes as he presses his fingernails into his palms.

  
_Think. What would Ma or Mom say, or Archie?_

  
"Are you afraid my mom is going to turn into the wicked witch?"

  
Roland doesn't answer, runs his muddy hands through his hair and folds them behind his head.

  
His mom is going to kill him for letting the kid get dirty. River's probably too cold to douse him. Too late now.

  
The kid starts to wiggle his feet again, more frantic, the sides of his shoes bouncing off each other and then slapping the mud.

  
"You know," Henry says, picking up a stick and digging a trench in the dirt between his legs. "There's a secret way to tell if you're not sure. If you want to know."

  
Roland sits up, the mud releasing him with a reluctant slurp. "How?"

  
"You can ask her a question. Something only you and her know the answer to, and if she can't tell you exactly what it is, you run and find your papa, Little John, or Emma."

  
"Or you?"

  
"Sure, kid."

  
Roland looks down at his muddy feet, scrapes his shoes together to knock off some of the muck. "What would you ask her?"

  
Henry’s chest squeezes again as he tries to think of a question for the wide-eyed little boy. There's lots of things, there are, but right now he can't think of a single one, and he needs to find something to tell Roland, something to help him, but it's just that he's never thought about it before. There's a part of him away behind his spleen that feels hollow and sad that Roland's even asking him this question.

  
"I would ask her about the day I found out I was adopted," he says at last, rolling the words around in his mouth as he says them. "She doesn't like to talk about it, so I don't think many people know a lot about that day."

  
"What happened?"

  
Henry sighs, thumps his head against the tree trunk and closes his eyes. "I said some mean things to her that made her mad and then sad."

  
"What kind of things?"

  
"That's the secret part," Henry says, opening one eye. "Only my mom knows exactly what."

  
Roland nods, a solemn dip of his chin that seems ridiculously out of place given the coating of mud drying on his skin and clothes. They should get back. Mom will want to start the fire soon, before dusk falls. "Come on. You can think about your question while we walk back, ok?"

  
They gather the kindling Henry's collected and the few pieces Roland scrounged before diving into the mud, and then start walking back to the campsite. Robin's finished settling his crossbow, his mom is throwing gentle casts of fishing line into the river, a careful eye turned toward both of them as they approach, and he's rewarded with an exasperated eyebrow raise as she takes in Roland's appearance. He shrugs as they walk past her, and he smiles at the quiet huff she releases. He's pretty sure she finds dirt personally offensive, but he'd never pegged her for the fishing type, either, so maybe there's still things he needs to learn about his mom, and the thought sets off a lurching swirl of giddiness and fear in his gut.

  
Roland is silent again when they're at the camp, back to his short, two-word answers to questions when Robin tries to engage him and not speaking at all when Henry’s mom is near, and he sees the tightness pulling at the corner of her eyes, the too-wide stretch of her mouth when she smiles at Roland, bringing a clutch of fish dangling from a hook with her.

  
"I didn't know you could fish," Henry says as she steps over the log he's sitting on and hangs the catch on a low-hanging tree branch.

  
"I wasn't always a queen," she says, and this time when she smiles the creases are gone and warmth radiates from her face, even if it is a tiny smile. "I was quite the tomboy when I was a young girl."

  
"And did you clean your own fish as well, milady?" Robin asks, eyes glinting as he considers her.

  
She glares at him, says, "You know I have no qualms with getting my hands dirty," and from the looks they're trading over the cold fire pit Henry doesn't think they're talking about cleaning fish.

  
Henry clears his throat. "Well I've never cleaned a fish before. Could one of you show me?"

  
"I will," Robin says, standing, brushing his hand over the back of Roland's head, frowning as dried mud crumbles in his fingers. "If you don't mind showing Regina how to start the fire, Roland?" The adults share another one of those Significant Looks, and then Roland shakes his head. "Good lad. The flint is in my satchel."

  
As Roland ducks into the tent he's sharing with his father, Henry stands and hooks his fingers around the catch, walking to the edge of their campsite to wait for Robin. When Roland emerges with flint in hand, Robin crouches and points to where he and Henry will be, just a few feet away if he needs him. The boy nods and approaches Regina with a timid smile, placing the flint on the log next to where she's sitting.

  
"Ready, then?" Robin asks, pulling out his knife as he walks toward him.

  
"Yeah."

  
They gather around a broad, flattish boulder that's still warm from the sun's midday tenure in the sky. Henry watches as the older man takes one of the fish in hand and begins making swift, careful slices down the belly, spilling the entrails to the pink granite in a slimy heap. It's messy and smells like the docks without the sharp edge of ocean brine, and he really prefers the frozen fillets he can pop in the oven, pre-seasoned and pre-cooked, but this feels important, to know and be taught, like he's part of the duality everyone else has swimming in their veins that he does not.

  
Robin lays the cleaned fish aside, flips the knife in the air and offers him the weapon, handle first. "Now you try," he says.

  
The knife is an unwieldy appendage sprouting from his hand, deadly and sharp, protection and aggression. He's used knives to cook, under his mother's careful observation, but never to butcher, never like this.

  
"Nice and steady," Robin says when he sees Henry’s hesitation. "No need to fear the fish; it's already dead. No need to fear the blade, for you control its path."

  
"Right. Nice and steady."

  
Except it's not. His cuts are sloppy, curbed by hesitation, jagged lines that massacre where Robin's exuded elegance. He cleans the fish, and it's not pretty by anyone's standard, but Robin is nodding his head and handing him the next one, offering an alternate grip on the knife that may be more comfortable for hands that are still growing. He's right. The new grip works better, and the second fish is still a little battered by the end, but a hard nugget of pride solidifies between his third and fourth rib as he sets the second fish next to his first.

  
Two more left to clean. Henry tries to hand the knife back to Robin, he's much more efficient, no one wants to eat shredded fish, but the man defers back to him, handing him the next one. "You'll never get better without practice," he says, turning so he's leaning against the boulder, arms folded tight across his chest, watching Roland and his mother by the fire. Henry casts his eye over his shoulder and gives her a tiny wave when she looks up from their collective gazes. She nods, a somewhat morose smile on her lips, and returns to watching Roland as he lifts up rocks, digging around in the dirt for something. Bugs, probably.

  
"Sorry he got so dirty," Henry says as he performs the opening slice. There, that one was pretty good. "I turned around for one minute and then he was in the mud."

  
"Don't fret. I saw the whole thing. He can be rather headstrong at times."

  
"Fits right in with the rest of us, then."

  
Robin hums an agreement and then falls silent, his attention shifting from the campfire to his progress with the fish and back again with the practiced ease of a parent. The same watchful mode his mother used to keep his hands from snatching cookies set out to cool on wire racks while she was busy preparing dinner, so effective he swore she had eyes in the back of her skull. Or magic.

  
Maybe a little of both.

  
"He's afraid Mom's going to turn into someone else."

  
"Did he tell you that?"

  
Henry shrugs. "Kind of. I gave him some advice. I hope that's ok."

  
"Of course," Robin says, turning his attention back to him, surprise etched in his face. "I'm glad he felt comfortable opening up to someone, finally."

  
"No big deal," Henry says, and shrugs again, the tips of his ears warm under Robin's scrutiny. He hadn't done anything special. "He's been through a lot."

  
"Yes, he has." Robin shifts against the boulder, uncrosses and crosses his arms, scuffs a booted foot in the gravel. "We all have. Regina told me about what happened with you, Emma, and Cruella."

  
Henry nicks the base of his thumb, right where the joint creases his skin, and he hisses as dark red droplets ooze from the wound. He manages to keep the blood off the fish, one point in his favor at least, but he couldn't hide the hitch of his shoulders when the blade bit into his flesh, and now Robin is turning his hand over, inspecting the wound in the waning light. "It's nothing," Henry protests. "Doesn't even hurt."

  
It hurts.

  
"Maybe I should finish this last one?" Robin asks, releasing his hand. Henry nods, acquiesces the blade to him, and as the thief begins to finish the job, Henry mimics the pose Robin held moments before.

  
The fish is dispensed with quick, efficient swipes of the blade, but before Henry can push off the boulder to rejoin his mother and Roland, Robin asks, "Is there anything you want to talk about?" His voice is soft, head tilted away from the campsite so the words won't carry back to the kid and his mom, and Henry wavers, kicking his heel against the rock supporting his weight.

  
The offer seems genuine enough. They've never really talked, he and the mythical Robin Hood made flesh, never had much of a chance, and even if Robin and his mom never end up "together" like that, they're still soulmates, part of each other’s lives for better or worse now, and that has to count for something, right? But Henry finds himself shaking his head, “No, thank you,” he's not quite ready for that yet. Someday, though.

  
"Of course," Robin says, straightening his shoulders and clearing his throat.

  
Henry glances over at him, watches him gather their dinner, and licks his lips. The question bursts out of him before he can stop himself. "Did-did you want to talk about something? About New York?"

  
Robin’s body goes rigid, the only movement the quiet whoosh of breath as he inhales, sharp and pointed.

  
Sweat gathers along Henry's shirt collar, a dull flush creeping up his neck as the seconds drag on with no response. No one's told him the whole story of what happened when his moms had gone to rescue the Locksleys from Zelena, but he's heard whispers and slanted glances from people in town, the words bandied about by careless gossips (pathetic, whipped, bastard, and a few other choice phrases he knows he’d be grounded for a month for if his moms found out he'd overhead).

  
Whatever happened, and he's got a twisty, spiky idea of what did, it was bad, bad enough to make Roland wary of even his mom, wary of her magic, leery of being left alone with anyone other than Robin for long. Bad enough that he'd heard his mom encouraging Robin to talk to Dr. Hopper if he felt up to it, late one night when he'd crept down the stairs for a late night snack, to take Roland with him, and he must have listened to her because the next day he'd gone to see the former cricket and came home with this suggestion of a camping trip to get away from the bustle of town with Roland, to take the boy back to a more familiar setting. And here they are, away from town and the stares and the whispers and Robin still hasn't said anything, hasn't moved a muscle other than to clench his hand in a loose fist at his side.

  
Crawling under a rock to die alone in his embarrassment sounds like a viable option at this point. He's about to stutter out an apology, mumble some excuse and then run all the way home, he'll stay with Emma for the rest of the weekend, when Robin exhales, long and slow, and turns to look at him.

  
"Thank you," he says. "Truly. But no."

  
"Ok," Henry agrees, and he's shivery and a little nauseated from the stress or whatever, or maybe he just needs to eat, and he leans more of his weight on the rock behind him. "Ok."

  
"Henry." Robin sets down the fish, shuffles around so that he's standing in front of him, and clasps his upper arms. "Thank you. For Roland. I can barely get him to tell me what he wants to eat for supper, and he just plopped himself down in the mud and all but told you what was wrong."

  
"It's no big deal," Henry says, looking away, but hearing him say those things is nice. It's nice to know he'd helped a little.

  
"I assure you, it's a big deal."

  
"Ok."

  
"Do you believe me?"

  
Robin squeezes his shoulders gently, and Henry pulls his gaze back to his and nods. Yes, he believes. He has the heart of the truest believer beating in his chest, for whatever good it does him other than being gullible and full of that hope stuff his grandma keeps spouting even as their family tears itself apart and rebuilds from the ground up. He can’t help it, can’t fight it, doesn’t have the energy to stop believing in people. So he won’t.

  
“Yeah, I do,” Henry says, smiling to appease him, and he grips Robin’s elbows for a moment and then they separate, scuffing their feet against the ground, grabbing the fish, and yes, he’ll go clean the knife in the river and then bring it back. He takes a moment to clean the cut on his thumb while he's at the water, holds his hand below the surface until his fingers are numb. It's a superficial wound. A thin red line hidden in the crease of his skin, no worse than a paper cut.

  
When he rejoins everyone around the fire, Roland is sitting on the ground between Robin’s legs, letting a fat black beetle run over and over his tiny hands, and his mom is frying the fish in a cast iron skillet above the fire, and it doesn’t feel like home for him either, out here in the forest by the river, but it feels like something new, something that could become good.


	2. Chapter 2

Neverland was the last time she’d slept outside under a stretch of canvas. There’d been no stars there, the sky shuttered behind the flora choking the island. Storybrooke is a sight safer than that cursed realm, but the same heart-stuttering anxiety stalks her still, keeps her sleep light, her consciousness floating close to awareness, her hands free from her sleeping bag and curled halfway. Here, the moonless night blazes with starlight, the water washing over the stony riverbed shushes the boys to sleep, the breeze carries the promise of rain toward them, and for the fourth time since they’d banked the campfire Regina starts awake.

  
_Anxiety, thy name is Zelena_ , she thinks as she rolls over, careful not to bump against Henry as he sleeps. Her sister is locked away in the asylum, cuffed and alone, and yet the veil of unease hasn’t lifted.

  
She’d stormed a realm to save her son from his great-grandfather, and she'd carved a path through this one to save her soulmate and his son from her twisted sister. Too little, too late, perhaps. The thought settles like a stone in her stomach, grinding against her insides, and she flips over again.

  
Henry’s snores drift over to her side of the tent. She's tempted to poke him until he rolls over, but their presence or absence won't make a difference at this point. She leaves him be. Except, it’s not only his snores she’s hearing over the placid sounds of the forest. Someone else is breathing heavy nearby. Someone in the tent with her and Henry.

  
Regina sucks down a sharp lungful of air, a small plume of fire igniting in her palm as she kicks her way out of her sleeping bag, already searching for Henry’s slumbering form in the small tent, glancing across the campsite for the tent Robin and Roland are sharing. A small whimper draws her attention to the back corner of her own sleeping area.

  
“Roland?” she whispers, sending the fire cupped in her palm into the fire pit, the fringes of the orange glow illuminating the small boy’s form. He’s crouched with his back against the tent wall, arms wrapped around his knees, eyes wide and glassy in the firelight. “Roland, are you ok?”

  
The boy doesn’t say anything, watches her as she sits in the middle of her mussed up sleeping bag, his gaze unwavering. Her arms ache with the strangled impulse to gather him close, wrap him in a firm embrace. He’s spent the last few weeks hovering in her periphery, unwilling to approach her and yet unable to stay away. Showing her how to use the flint and steel to light the fire was the most he’d spoken to her in one sitting, and even then he’d whispered little one word instructions and acted out what she was supposed to do more than holding a conversation with her.

  
Anger bubbles below her skin as she remembers Emma’s soft, “Regina, look,” and the hand pointed to the open door to the bedroom where Roland’s head was barely visible around the curve of the couch’s arm. He’d seen everything, her raging, Zelena’s magic, his father’s horror, was woken from his nap by the cacophony of their confrontation, trapped in the seedy bedroom. His little fingers gripped the door frame tight enough to press white and red markings into his skin when Robin rushed over to lift him into his arms, face pressed tight to his shoulder.

  
“What did I tell you about your heart?” Roland asks, his voice soft and round like the absent moon.

  
“I’m sorry?”

  
“Back home. What did I tell you about your heart?”

  
Henry had warned her Roland might ask her a few odd questions on this trip when he’d come back from cleaning the fish with Robin, saying only that she should answer them as specifically as possible. When she’d questioned him further, he’d demurred, shoving more fish into his mouth.

  
(He's growing much too fast, will be a head taller than her by the time summer is over and the new school year starts. When did he have time to grow in between all the disasters slung their way?)

  
Regina shifts closer to the boy, keeping her movements slow and cautious. Roland's body language tightens a fraction as she settles with her knees on her pillow, close enough to reach him, but with her hands clenched around her sweatpant-clad thighs. “You’d asked me why Henry didn’t live in the castle with us,” she says, dragging in a breath jagged with the rush of memories flooding over her.

  
_She slips from her chambers in the stillness before the sun crests the mountains abutting the castle, her thoughts hours ahead of her body and well into the meetings with the Charmings and their pathetic excuse for a war council. Far enough ahead that she almost collides with a mop of brown curls as the thief's boy pops around the corner. She presses a hand to her chest as he stumbles back, a small cry leaving his lips before he recovers and offers a gallant bow._

  
_"Majesty, may I esc—ascor—take you to breakfast?"_

  
_She's never been one for morning meals, but he's much too young to be wandering the halls alone at this hour, and his stomach growls something ferocious as he waits for her answer. Fine. She'll take him to the kitchens before returning him to his father. She nods, and her heart is molten lead dripping down the rungs of her ribs as he clutches her larger hand in his own._

  
“We were eating berry scones in the kitchen. You were sitting on one of the preparation tables. I handed you a cup of milk, and then teased you when you had a white mustache on your lip,” she continues, ghosting her fingers over her own upper lip.

  
_He wipes his sleeve across his mouth before she can summon a rag to clean him up, and she sighs, hands perched on her hips as he tucks into the rest of his breakfast. The scone stretches across the whole of his face as he chomps his way down the middle. If not for the dimples and curls, he could be Henry on a Saturday morning, chewing a path corner to corner through his toast, peanut butter clinging to corners of his mouth. An ache swells beneath her breast as she keeps watch over him, such a fidgety little thing, legs swinging back and forth, missing her by a hair's breadth as he finishes his snack. Oh, Henry._

  
“You said, ‘Majesty, you’re wearing your Henry face’,” Regina says, and her voice thickens as an echo of that awful ache pangs her for a moment before subsiding. “And I told you there was a tiny part of my heart that was missing because Henry was keeping it safe for me in the Land Without Magic, and sometimes it made me sad.”

  
Roland shudders as fat tears plink onto the sleeves of his shirt. He’s still gripping his knees, hands planted firm on his elbows, but the wild edge of fear is fading from his eyes the longer she talks, and she relaxes her grip on her thighs and scoots a tiny bit closer to him, leaning forward until she’s level with him.

  
“And then,” Regina says, her breath hitching, nose tingling and warm. “Then you put down your scone and pressed your little hand to your chest.” She places her hand over her own chest and smiles even as her lip betrays a small tremble. “And you said, ‘Majesty, I can share part of mine. Until Henry can give yours back. So you won’t be sad’.”

  
She’s crying then, and he’s crying, and he falls forward into her, knocking her backward a bit as his arms clench tight around her torso, his head locking into the curve of her neck like Henry’s did at this age. She presses her hand to his curls, strokes and shushes him through her own tears, rocking back and forth until he calms. Henry’s snores died away some time during her story, and when she glances over to check on him she finds him watching them through heavy lids, smiling, and then he’s rolling over again, returning to sleep and (she hopes) peaceful dreams.

  
“Regina?”

  
“Yes, Roland?”

  
“I think there’s a hole in my heart, too.”

  
“Oh, sweetheart.” She clutches him tighter to her, wishes there were a way she could draw all of the hurt out of him like a poison and lock it up inside her own body. He sniffles against her shoulder, untucks one of his arms from hers to wipe his nose, and she pushes him back gently so she can see him and he can see her. She covers her heart with her right hand, her left resting on his. “Your heart is strong and fierce and so full of love.”

  
He swipes away the last tracks of tears on his cheeks. “What if it doesn’t get better?”

  
Regina presses her lips together, closes her eyes for a moment. Then she looks Roland in the eye and says, “Then you can use part of mine until we find a way to set it right.”

  
He sniffs again, blinks. She waits, scarce daring to move a muscle as his shoulders rise and fall, his breath settling into a more normal rhythm.

  
And then, a nod. A slow, careful acceptance of this same gift offered to her a lifetime ago in another realm, and Regina breathes long and deep once more. She runs her fingers through his curls, frowns when hard, muddy knots catch her hand and tug his scalp.

  
"Roland, honey, will you please let me wash your hair?"

  
"But I like it," he says, even as he lifts a hand to scratch at the back of his head, a shower of dirt raining down.

  
Regina sighs, sits back on her heels. Robin had coaxed him into clean clothes after supper, but decided to forgo the bath when the boy had begun nodding off over his plate of food. Now, though, he's awake, and the mud has to be itchy and uncomfortable. If it had been up to her, if Henry was the one who'd returned in such a state, he'd have been scrubbed down before supper, but he's not her son, and Robin hadn't seemed concerned about letting him sleep in it, either, so she'd held her tongue. She has the teeth marks on the inside of her lip to prove it.

  
"Rubber duckie," Henry mumbles, turning his head on his pillow and blinking sleepily up at them. "Ask her to sing the rubber duckie song, kid."

  
Roland stops scratching the top of his scalp, looks down at Henry with his head cocked to the side. Robin's son takes after his mother in looks, certainly, but his mannerisms are all his father's. "What's a rubber duckie?" Roland asks.

  
"It's a toy you can play with in the water."

  
His little mouth drops into a perfect "o" and he turns back to face Regina for confirmation. "You get toys in the bath?"

  
"Sometimes," Regina says, nodding. "When you've been a good boy. If you listen to your Papa, eat your vegetables..."

  
"Put your shoes away in your room instead of leaving them on the stairs," Henry offers, yawning halfway through his interjection. He wraps his arms around his pillow and pulls it closer until he's lying halfway on top of it, his head propped up on the bunched up end. "But if you want Mom to sing the song, you have to get a bath. That's the rule."

  
"Regina," Roland says, clutching at one of her hands with both of his. "Can I play with the rubber duck? Please?"

  
She laughs, quietly to not disturb the one member of their party unaffected by insomnia, and shakes her head. "I didn't think to bring one with us. I wasn't expecting you to get so filthy," she says, darting hand forward to tickle him below his arm. He pulls away with a tiny shrieking giggle, and she shushes him with a finger to her lips. "But I will sing you the song if you let me wash your hair out at least."

  
The little boy heaves a long suffering sigh, but positively quivers with excitement, unable to keep it contained when he answers in the affirmative. Regina tells him to go find the towels rolled up in the back of the car and to bring two of the cheap plastic pails they'd brought for sand castles in case they decided to stop by the beach on the way home. He bolts from the tent, skidding on the ground a bit near the fire, prompting a harsh, hissed, "Careful," from her as he catches himself and continues toward the parked suv with the reckless, gravity-defying gait of a child.

  
" _Rubber duckie, you're the one_..." Henry croons into his pillow, breaking off as his voice cracks one the last note, and grins at her unimpressed smirk. " _You make bath time lots of fun_."

  
She chuckles, shaking her head as she leans over to kiss him sound on his temple. "You're sleep drunk, my little prince."

  
"Not your little prince anymore," he mumbles, already starting to fade back into sleep. "You've got a new one to take care of now."

  
"Hey," she says, shaking his shoulder until he opens his eyes again. He needs to hear this, needs to know this before he drifts away from her, and if he doesn't remember in the morning she'll tell him again and again until he believes her. "You will _always_ be my little prince. Even when you're grown with kids of your own."

  
"Mom," he protests, embarrassed by affection and girls and even the suggestion he may one day admit he _likes_ a girl, but she'll take embarrassed over disdain, over fear, over rejection, so she presses another kiss to the side of his head and tells him to get some sleep.

  
"I love you," she whispers, and he mumbles, "I love you, too," into his pillow as he tugs his sleeping bag up and over his shoulder.

  
These last few weeks haven't been easy; between the invasion of villains, her sister's mind games, and Robin and Roland staying in the guest room temporarily, she's barely had time to think or breathe. And Henry's been going to school through it all. Making decent grades, too. Not up to his usual, or her usual standards, but considering the kind of year they've had she's letting it slide. This once.

  
She tugs on her hiking boots and stuffs the ends of her sweatpants into the tops before lacing them into a quick knot. Through the tent's opening she sees Roland, buckets in one hand and gray towel draped over his head like a wimple, picking at something on the ground near the rear of the car, and the thought it might be something alive, or worse, dead, spurs her out and into the night to investigate. When she reaches the car she sighs, relieved. He's only dropping small twigs in the path of a line of ants carrying grass seed toward an orange ant hill under the car.

  
It's chilly in the night air, away from her sleeping bag. Not enough to make her pull her jacket over her long sleeved shirt, but the river water will be cold. Roland's eyes follow her as she opens the car door and rummages through her bag for the bottle of soap she'd tucked in the side pocket at the last minute. She hands him the clear container, closes the car door. "You'll smell like cinnamon apples for a little while," she says, plucking the towel off his head and tossing it over her shoulder as she crouches in front of him. "But you won't itch anymore. Sound like a fair trade?"

  
He scrunches his nose as he considers the bottle, tilting it end over and and watching the viscous tan liquid slide along the walls. After a moment he looks up at her and nods, handing the soap back to her and scratching his head again.

  
"Good. Now there's one more thing we need to talk about, and then we'll get you cleaned up." She tucks her hair behind her ear and folds her arms across her knees, swaying a little on the balls of her feet. "The river water's too cold right now. I can warm it up in the buckets with my magic," she says, pausing as he stands straighter, his eyes locking onto hers. "Or we can bring a few pails of water back to the fire to heat it up like we did back in the Enchanted Forest. Either way is fine with me."

  
A little of the wild look is back in his eye, but he's not shrinking away from her, standing straight and still as he watches her, his expression more thoughtful than afraid. She hopes. A moment later he nods his head, a deliberate little motion that pangs her heart with its gravity.

  
"Yes?" she asks. "Yes what?"

  
"You can use the magic," he whispers.

  
"Are you sure?"

  
"Yes. Fire takes too long."

  
Regina chuckles. "Let's get started, then." She stands and holds out her hand to him, and together they walk down to the edge of the river.

  
She dips the orange pail in the current, and then walks a few feet to where she’s stationed Roland with the empty yellow pail, towel wrapped around his shoulders. “When I was the queen,” she says, setting down the bucket and turning it just so. “Back in the Enchanted Forest, I used to use this spell to warm my baths.” She twirls her fingers over the water, and then a glimmer of purple shimmers over the surface before submerging. “See?” Regina dips her hand into the water and flicks a little of it onto Roland’s hand.

  
The little boy gasps and then smiles. “It’s warm!” He scoots forward and sticks his own hand into the water, swishing back and forth, bouncing his fingers off the edges of the pail.

  
She has him bend over the empty pail while she pours the warm water over his head, alternating the buckets until his curls are soaked through, and then she squirts a handful of soap into her hands and suds them up as best she can before working them into his hair. He rests his elbows on his knees, his chin propped on his fists, and it’s not the best angle to work with, but she’s hoping this won’t take too long, that he’ll be tucked in his sleeping bag sooner rather than later.

  
“Regina?”

  
“Yes?”

  
“Do you know how to change into someone else?”

  
Her hands falter for a moment. “Yes,” she says, and resumes sudsing his scalp, picking out snarls while she’s at it. “I can do that kind of magic.”

  
“Oh,” Roland says. "Have you ever done it before?"

  
"Yes. A long time ago."

  
“I thought it was only something bad witches could do.”

  
Her fingers brush something sharp and hard. A pebble encased in a dense patch of knots. Regina exhales through her nose, pumping an extra dollop of soap onto her fingers to work out the rats nest wrapped around the rock, and braces herself for the next question he’s going to ask. _Are you a bad witch, too? Are you going to pretend to be someone else?_ He’s shifting more now, tapping his fingers against his cheeks, rocking from side to side a bit on his knees. Any moment now.

  
“Ow!” he says, jerking his head away as she tugs a little too hard, and then he freezes. His face tips up, and he whispers, “I’m sorry.”

  
Her fingers slip from his hair, soap bubbles sliding down the sides of her wrists as her breath punches past her lips. Roland sits as though carved from stone, his lashes fluttering as he presses his lips together until the pink bleeds into white.

  
He's still afraid of her.

  
Ice splinters in her ventricles, every heartbeat a thundering rush in her ears. Children have feared her before, but never one she cared for. Even Henry at the height of their troubled times was never afraid of her. But Roland, Roland is. The boy of perpetual motion, of endless chatter, of dimpled smiles and mischievous smirks, hasn’t so much as twitched in the last ten seconds as she's gathered her thoughts.

  
If she'd known he was there, known he was awake and watching their every move in that ratty apartment as she threatened to tear his (fake) mother apart she would have... would have...

  
Shit.

  
“I’m not mad, Roland,” she says, attempting to keep her tone bright and even as her heart creases and cracks like old leather. “I’m the one who should apologize for tugging too hard.”

  
"You're not going to yell at me?"

  
"No, of course not, sweetheart." She licks her lips and shifts off her knees, settling with her legs crossed beneath her, hands draped over her shins. "Roland, have you ever been scared before?"

  
He nods.

  
"What did you do?"

  
"I cried and hugged Papa." He spreads his knees wide until his bottom hits the ground, and tugs the ends of the towel around his shoulders like a cape.

  
"Well, adults get scared sometimes, too," Regina says. "And that day I came to New York I was very, very scared."

  
"How come you were shouting?"

  
"I was afraid the wicked witch was going to hurt you or your papa," she says, tucking her hair behind her ear. "But I didn't want her to know I was afraid, so I tried to be scarier than her."

  
"You did a good job," Roland says, scooting forward a bit.

  
She tries a smile on him, encouraged by his movment toward her, and sweet relief washes over her as he returns it, small and shy, but there. "I'm sorry I frightened you, Roland."

  
He nods his head, that same serious, grave little motion, and twists the ends of the towel in his hands.

  
Regina bites her lip, casts her mind about for something, anything to fix this, or at least mend things enough to get them through the night. "Have you ever heard of a pinky swear?" When he shakes his head, she holds out her hand, pinky finger extended. "I'm going to make a promise and then you're going to make a promise, and we'll link pinkies to seal the deal, ok?"

  
Roland scoots further forward and wraps his arms around the bucket of sudsy water. "What kind of promise?" he asks, a healthy dollop of suspicion tinging his voice, drumming his fingers against the bright yellow plastic as he waits for her answer.

  
"I promise to never yell at you like that if you promise to always tell me or your papa when you're afraid of something. Do you think we can do that?"

  
He considers her for a moment, purses his lips and furrows his brow, and she feels light, so light because he's playing with her, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he fights to keep the seriousness plastered across his face. "If you sing the rubber duckie song like you promised," he says, allowing the impish grin to bloom on his face at last.

  
Regina drops her head forward and laughs. "I did promise, didn't I? Well then," she says, meeting his gaze and smiling. "We have ourselves a pinky swear."

  
"Pinky swear," Roland repeats.

  
They link fingers, and Regina presses her forehead against his. “Come on; we're almost done,” she says, and taps his hands, beckoning him to scoot forward a little until he’s bent over the pail again. She checks the water, refreshes the warming spell, and starts to rinse his hair, singing low and deep from her chest. Exhaustion consumes him halfway through; his head droops further and further toward the pail until she starts peppering him with questions about the myriad of bugs he’d discovered today to keep him awake.

  
She gentles her touch on the tangles, digs her fingernails into the worst of the knots, and though she's taking extra care not to tug, her fingers tremble as she combs through his hair one last time to check for soap residue. She thought she'd made her peace with the way things stand, with her sister's machinations and the effects thereof, but now, on her knees by the river, washing mud from a five-year-old's hair, she's anything but fine with things.

  
Roland yawns, wide and loud as she towels his hair dry. Once he's cleaned up, she tucks him into his sleeping bag, both of them moving slow and careful to avoid waking Robin. Regina taps the boy on his nose as he burrows into his bed, whispers, "Goodnight, little archer," and backs out of the tent on all fours.

  
She sits back on her haunches, staring into the fire she's conjured, her gaze unfocused as the flames feast on the logs in the pit. A prickle at the base of her neck drips barbs down her spine; they ricochet through her nervous system until her whole body is buzzing, humming with the intoxicating rush of _darkness_ swelling and railing against her ribs, pulsing down the length of her limbs with every heaving breath she pulls into her lungs.

  
Her watch face shatters.

  
Glass trickles down her wrist, spills to the ground near her knee, and Regina blinks smoke from her eyes.

  
There's not enough room in this tiny campsite, not enough air between the two tents and the stone-rimmed fire pit to breathe, too many delicate, fragile things exposed. Away. She needs to get away before she does something she can't undo. Regina scribbles a note and weighs it down with the edge of Robin's boot. He'll see it when he wakes if she's not back before light.

  
She walks down the river, past the place where Roland was rolling in the mud, a faint "x" shaped indention crusting over the ground where he lay. Further and further down, away from where her son is sleeping, her soulmate slumbering, his son falling back into the clasp of dreamless night. Far away from those she could harm, however indirectly, and, gods, how stupid, how _stupid_ was she to have thought she would be able to garner even a fraction of a happy ending without paying for it with the lives of those she cherished.

  
A waterfall charges down the cliff face a few meters ahead, the water frothing white against the dark slabs of rock edging the river, spilling into the ravine. Here is good. Here the water will drown everything out. She turns her back to the edge of the cliff face. Closes her eyes. Then _pulls_.

  
In front of her, a large conifer bows its leafy head. She pulls harder, and the wood begins to creak.

  
Again. Harder.

  
The damp earth surrenders the dense network of roots.

  
More magic. More emotion. Feed the pain.

  
Green leaves rain to the ground, small twigs break free, bark splinters from the trunk, and she yanks her hand into the air in a fist as the tree falls forward. It hovers, listing from side to side as though she grasps it by a rope, dangling it over the ground. She stands, arms raised, chest heaving, and throws.

  
The tree sails over the edge of the cliff, tumbling through the air until it's only a matchstick in the dark, a matchstick, yes, that's what it needs, and she releases a whorl of fire that screams into the ravine, flames sputtering as the tree splinters on the rocks below.

  
"That," she says to the darkness of night, to the rush of water and the crackle of fire. "That was for Roland."

  
She turns again, and _pulls_.

  
Pulls too hard. The pine snaps in half, an explosion of sap and wood. She tosses the top half to the side, the ground rumbling below her feet, vibrations racing up to her knees, and she wrenches the lower stump from the earth with the twist of her wrist, the fatal flick, the one that breaks men's necks, severs mortal tethers. This one she sets ablaze before sending it to the rocks below.

  
"That was for Robin."

  
She is powerful.

  
Thick smoke rises from the ravine, a film of gray coating the star-dappled night. She turns back to the tree line, pulls another and another, setting them alight, hurling them all to a fiery grave, dashed upon the rocks like the skeletons of shipwrecks. _For Henry. For the baby._

  
She is powerless.

  
The baby's a girl. They found out three days ago, standing side by side with the _whump-whump-whump-whump_ of the sonogram filling the room as the wand slid across her sister's gel-slicked belly. Robin held her hand tight, so tight as the doctor pointed out grainy features on the screen with the tip of his ballpoint pen. Eyes, nose, a tiny foot curving across the screen. She loves her already, this unwitting niece of hers, but a hint of nausea lingered at the back of her throat as she watched Robin's face, the feeling crawling out of a tiny, dark place she hasn't mustered the courage to dwell on yet.

  
Well now. That deserves a dislocated tree, too.

  
"Regina!"

  
Robin's voice cuts through her, and she releases her grip on the conifer. It groans as it wobbles, a shower of leaves falling from its mighty head. Her eyes sting from the smoke, the world a watery blur until she blinks away the tears.

  
"Regina," Robin says again, coming to stop a few meters from her. "What are you doing?" He's sweaty, panting, doubled over coughing from the smoke, and her heart swells in her throat at the sight of him as his face twists in confusion, concern.

  
The smoke gets to her too, strange how she seemed impervious to it moments before, and she coughs and waves him away, further into the forest where the air is clearer. Their feet crunch over dead leaves and brush, Regina guiding him around the newly minted holes gaping in the earth. She stops when she can breathe again, one hand pressed to tree trunk as she bends at the waist.

  
Robin clears his throat, asks her again, "What's going on?"

  
"I'm avenging you all."

  
"By burning down the forest?"

  
She laughs, harsh and brief before it dissolves into another hacking cough. "Uprooting and barbecuing a couple trees seemed the better alternative."

  
"To what?"

  
"I need to put out the fire before it spreads." She motions for him to stay put and begins walking back to the ravine.

  
He doesn't listen to her, of course, why would he do that, she only wants to keep him safe, safe from her magic (safe from Zelena's), safe from the slippery perch at the apex of the falls, safe from all the broken things that were once—oh, for fuck’s sake, they’re only trees burning in the ravine, not happy endings.

  
She twirls her hand, a lazy, circular motion that belies the power she channels behind the movement. The waterfall begins to divert halfway into the ravine, foamy columns of water churning onto the flames. Once the fire abates, she lowers her hand, rubbing her wrist, and turns back to Robin. He's level with the edge of the cliff a few meters down from where she stands.

  
He smooths his hand over his mouth, finger and thumb tracing the squared lines of his perpetual stubble. "You're quite impressive when you're angry, you know."

  
"That's the problem," she mutters, tugging her shirt down and marching past him. "You should get back to the campsite."

  
"Henry is watching out for Roland. They'll be fine for a few more minutes."

  
"I left you a note."

  
"Yes, and I thank you for doing so this time,” he says, following her through the trees. “Surely, though, you can understand my concern when I woke to find ‘getting some air’ scrawled on a candy bar wrapper under my boot and smoke on the horizon."

  
"I promise, no more pyrotechnics tonight."

  
"Regina, stop," he says, hand curling around her bicep. "Please." He releases her as soon as she turns, stepping out of her space, but still within arm’s reach. “Did something happen?”

  
Yes. And no. It’s hard to explain, and she really doesn’t want to, not like this, with that cold, creeping nausea clawing at her as she stalks through the forest in sweatpants and hiking boots with her socks scrunched halfway below her heels.

  
“Is a baby what you want?” she asks, folding her arms across her chest. Fucking hell, where did that come from? That's not what she meant to say, not how she wanted to start this conversation.

  
(This is not the conversation she intended to have with him).

  
“What?” He’s confused, of course, why wouldn't he be, and his sanguine expression flickers out, his face shuttering as he watches her walk back and forth before him.

  
“I can do the math, Robin. You weren’t even gone a month before knocking her up.” Less than, actually, given Zelena’s projected due date. She swallows hard, fingers curling around her elbows.

  
He frowns, and pushes himself off the tree he’s leaned against. “That’s hardly fair.”

  
“What am I supposed to think?” she asks. “You left, and the first thing you did was start a new family. You know my history. If another child is what you want, if that’s the conversation we were heading toward, then that’s something I’m never going to be able to give you.”

  
“And what answer will appease you, milady? If I say that I don’t want this child, then I’m a cad, a worthless, codeless man, and if I do, then I’m unfaithful to you, to your feelings. You’ve left me nowhere to go.”

  
“I don’t want to you to not want the baby.” The words spin in the air around them, a vortex sucking the air from their conversation.

  
“Then what do you want? Marian almost died while pregnant with Roland. You think I was eager for the possibility that would happen again in this realm, despite all the medical advances at our disposal?”

  
“I think you thought with something other than your head,” she says, ice lacing her words, and oh, she’s got him riled up now.

  
He steps into her path, and though the darkness shields the details of his face she can almost feel the heat radiating from the dusky red fury swallowing his neck, inching up his throat to his jaw. “Fine. Fine! You want the truth? You want a fight? It should be you, Regina,” he says, pointing back toward the town. “It should have been you carrying my child, not her, and there’s not a day that goes by that some part of me wishes it were so.”

  
“Screw you, Robin.” She turns on her heel, the back of her boot rubbing her achilles tendon raw, and flicks her hand as she passes the tree she’d been tending to when he interrupted her. It jumps at her command, spitting dirt and leaves into the air as she wrenches the roots from the ground. Setting it aflame doesn’t feel like enough, now, though. She tugs the tree closer, lifts her arms—and stops. The tree thuds to the ground and then falls into another throng of trees. This is not what she wants.

  
Robin walks up behind her, and his presence irritates her like a grain of sand until he reaches for her wrist and slides his fingers against her skin, soft and tentative.

  
“I don’t regret what I did,” she whispers, and she hates herself a little for succumbing to his touch so easily, being calmed by the physical contact instead of enraged.

  
“I know,” he says, and then sighs. “This is my fault. I’ve handled everything poorly.”

  
“No.” She steps away from him, but he holds on this time, and she lets him, allows him to keep her tethered to him. “It’s mine. She’s my sister.”

  
“I suppose there’s enough blame to go around for everyone.” He rubs his thumb against her back of her hand, back and forth, back and forth, bumping against the hills and valleys of her knuckles. The steady motion cools her anger further, despite herself, and she can hear the gentle smirk in his voice as he suggests, “We’ll just have to blame your vindictive witch of a sister as well. Call it even, then, yeah?”

  
“Yeah,” she ekes out seconds before a yawn overtakes her, and it’s like the signal they’ve both been waiting for because then he’s yawning too, a huge, unexpected force that consumes his face until they're both chuckling through the denouement. She rotates her hand out of his grasp, slips her fingers between his and squeezes. “To the camp?”

  
“To the camp,” he agrees.

  
On the journey back, Regina speaks of her adventures with Roland, his quiet confrontation with her in her tent and their pinky swear by the river. They tug each other out of the way of gnarled tree roots and ill-placed stones breaching the ground, and whenever he’s the one to guide them away from an obstacle, he twitches his hand to pull her tight against him for a quick embrace before another foxhole or bramble separates them. Robin’s relief and sadness mingle in the spaces between her words, the silent acknowledgement that while opening up to her was a step in the right direction, the memory potion they’d discussed all those weeks ago but hadn’t used may still be necessary. It’s a topic neither has the energy to discuss at the moment, and they leave it be, trailing behind them like a lead weight as they slip into silent space below shushing of the trees and the rush of the river.

  
The campsite is closer than Regina remembers, and she worries her fits of rage, the manic landscaping may have disturbed the boys as they slept. Her anxieties are for naught. Henry’s moved his sleeping bag into Robin’s tent, and he’s snoring once again, his lanky body curling in a waning moon toward Roland.

  
“Poor lad. Roland’s a terrible bunkmate,” Robin whispers, pointing at his son’s leg hooked over Henry’s bent knee. The five-year-old is halfway out of his sleeping bag, laying sideways in the tent, hugging his blankets rather than sleeping beneath them almost. “It’s not been a night unless I awake with his heel in my spleen.”

  
“At least he doesn’t snore,” Regina says. She nudges Henry’s foot with her own, but the teen is sound asleep. It would be cruel to wake him a third time in the middle of the night, close to dawn as it must be by now. She bites her lip, glances over at Robin. “Do you mind letting them sleep?”

  
“Not at all,” he says. “I think my bedroll has been relocated in any case.”

  
And so it has, she sees, turning back to her tent and finding his next to hers. She raises an eyebrow. This has Henry written all over it, he has the subtlety of both his mothers, but she truly doesn’t want to wake him again, so she joins Robin in her tent, settles back into her sleeping bag as he shifts inside his. The day was long, the night even longer, and sleep is a swift companion.

  
She’s almost lost to it when Robin speaks into the stillness of their tent.

  
“I’m afraid,” he whispers.

  
“Of what?” she answers, her voice equally soft.

  
“That she’ll look like your sister. That all I’ll be able to see when I hold her, when I dry her tears, when I tuck her in at night will be Zelena.”

  
“Oh, Robin.” She twists her arm free of her blankets, and slides her palm onto his chest. His heart thumps against her hand. _Your heart is strong and fierce and so full of love_.

  
“What kind of father will I be if I can’t put that aside and love her the way she deserves?”

  
“You are going to be a wonderful father to her,” she says, pushing herself up on her elbow. “Look at me.” Regina trails her fingers up to his jaw, tips his face toward hers. “What do you see?”

  
He frowns. “I see you.”

  
“Exactly. You see me. You—you love me,” Regina says, still a tad self conscious saying the words aloud, as though someone or something will reach down from the sky and steal the sentiment straight from her lips. “You see through the layers of my history, and you love me anyway. Your daughter will be no different.”

  
He skims his fingers up her arm, pulls her hand down over his heart again. “I do love you. Very much so.”

  
“You’re going to be fine,” she says, scooting closer, until the front of her body is pressed to his side, her head notched to the curve of his shoulder and neck. “We’re all going to be fine. All of us. Together.”

  
“Together,” Robin says, and he lifts her fingers to his mouth, presses tender kisses to each slender digit as she tilts her head to peck at the underside of his jaw before settling with a sigh, asleep before the breath leaves her lungs.

  
Dawn stains the horizon with blooms of lilac and cerulean, and under the changing celestial guard, the family by the river, finally, sleeps. 


End file.
